


The House Under the Willows

by SpookyTwenty



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Also listing out what you're grateful for is a quazi-religious thing people do, Alternate Universe - Civil War, Alternate Universe - Western, Catra is a smooth talkin rambler, F/F, Hordak is a Confederate General, Melog is Catra's horse, People say "Powers" instead of "God" because she-ra is anti religion, Shadow weaver is a piece of shit, Staring, Swearing, gunfights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookyTwenty/pseuds/SpookyTwenty
Summary: “It’s someone from my past,” Catra lied. “Heard she might be around here. Name’s-” she’s interrupted when Adora’s face goes white. Stupid soliders must be back,please, Powers, let them try something.Hand slipping to her belt, Catra turned and watched five thousand dollars walk in the door. Well, five thousand alive or twenty five hundred dead, when she brought the head back to Wyoming.This is too easy,Catra thought as a grin spread across her face.What’s the catch?The catch followed Weaver a beat later, a hulking man probably 7 or 8 feet tall, with broad shoulders and brass buttons down a military uniform. His hat was emblazoned with some symbol Catra didn’t recognize. It had plenty of guns and knives so it was probably some military thing. Two guards, looking more nervous than Catra, filed in right after him, taking up positions beside the door. The clumping of boots on the porch announced more guards outside.Weaver glided right past Catra, heading straight for Adora, who did not look happy to see her. “Adora, my darling, it’s been so long since you came to see me,” she drawled.
Relationships: Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	The House Under the Willows

**Author's Note:**

> It's an alternate universe! Set in the American Southwest, mid-1800s, with likely more than a few anachronisms. Etheria is the planet, and there aren't any stars and there are three moons. Besides that it's basically Earth!  
> I hope you like this, it's my first fic that I've published in over a decade...

Melog’s saddlebags flapped in the cool breeze, empty save for crumbs. The sun was long gone and the night was as deep and dark as the void in Catra’s stomach. The soft pink light of the moon bathed the tiny town she was heading into. _Brightmoon_ , read a sign that croaked like an old man.

It was late enough that the town was quiet, Melog’s clopping the only sounds apart from the crickets and the sign. And some voices, faintly from around the corner. Food. Catra clicked her tongue, mouth watering at the mere thought. Melog, sensing her anticipation, picked up the pace and rounded the corner to reveal an oasis. A soft stream of yellow light trickled from the inn, saloon doors swaying gently in the breeze. A painted sign with a crescent moon was the only decoration Catra could see.

Hunger gnawed at her like a knife through the ribs - she had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing exactly what that felt like - and catra slipped off Melog, loosely tying him at the end of the posts outside.

She scoped out the other horses on her way to the door. There were a few more than you might expect for a town this size, even one with a train station. Very importantly, none had the same brand as Melog, and only three shared a brand among them. Last time she hadn’t checked the brands she’d walked into the middle of a gang war. Only good part about _that_ was the bottle of whiskey she’d swiped on her way out.

She pushed open the door, squinting against the lantern glare. A few of the other patrons watched over their playing cards as she limped her way over to the bar. The rolling stream of a dozen conversations washed over her. This place looked nice enough, the floors were clean and there wasn’t any blood on the walls. A big staircase dominated the middle of the room, splitting into two as it climbed up to a balcony that ringed the common room. A big chandelier hung in the middle of the room, wrought iron circles holding a dozen or so oil lamps. They shone down on a few tables, surrounded by people playing cards and drinking.

Everyone seemed to be in that pleasant stage of drunkenness, enough that they didn’t hide their curiosity about the stranger but not enough that they wanted to start anything. Hopefully Catra would be eye deep in a bath by then.

She stamped her way over to the bar, gritting her teeth against the pins and needles in her legs and hoping it looked like a threatening swagger. She slotted her slight frame in between two hunched men, sidelong glances revealing they were both nearly asleep on the bar. A harried-looking girl flew past but slid to a halt when she saw the new face over her bar. She was shorter than Catra, her hair a little purple-ish in the moonlight from the window behind her.

“What’ll it be, stranger?” her eyes narrowed as she smiled, leaning against the bar across from Catra.

“Food for me and my horse, water too, whiskey, a bath, and a bed for the night,” Catra said, fully intending to consume them in that order as quickly as possible.

The girl nodded, smile widening. Wanderers like Catra were good business, even if they brought trouble. She set a glass bottle full of the clearest, cleanest looking water Catra had ever seen on the counter. Catra grabbed it, manners be cursed.

“It’ll be five for all that,” the girl said. Catra grimaced, even though she had the money. “There’s a stable round the corner, you can put your horse up there. Food should be ready by the time you get back. Bath’ll be later, we’re a little short staffed tonight.”

Catra slammed the coins down on the bar, grabbed what remained of the water, and headed for the door. Once Melog was settled, munching happily on the oats catra found in a corner, she sat heavily on a hay bale and took a long drink of the water.

 _Fuck this desert_ , she thought, not for the first time. She should’ve stayed in Wyoming, not sold everything and packed off to practically Mexico. Catching cattle rustlers and thieves for pennies sounded better and better the further she got from home. _Home?_ _The house under the willow trees isn’t home, is it?_

The water rolling back and forth in her stomach, she limped back to the inn, spurs chiming softly. Hardly anyone looked up as she entered, most everyone was watching the balcony for some reason. The energy was different, too, she realized, an excited buzz that wasn’t there when she left.

Then she spotted the plate on the bar and forgot everything else. Two slices of greasy bacon steamed on top of a heap of mashed potatoes. Gravy flowed down the mountains of potato and into the valleys and cracks of a piece of bread, crust still dusted with a little bit of snowy flour. Under the bread, a surprising ocean of beans, their sauce mixing with the gravy like a muddy river mixing with a lake.

Catra ate for what felt like a century, only looking up when a heavy pour of whiskey and another bottle of water landed on the bar. She grunted her thanks through an overstuffed mouth, adding more water to her rapidly filling belly.

Mid-chew, hair rose on the back of her neck. She nearly shed a tear as she pulled her attention from the last bites of bacon. But the room had fallen silent, and that was never good. Not when you were a new face in the room. Her hand found the butt of her revolver as she casually turned around, flopping a piece of bacon in her other hand in what she hoped was nonchalance. But none of the eyes were on her. Every single face was turned upward. Her anxiety only increased as her eyes travelled up. Whatever they were staring at was directly behind the chandelier, and she could only see flashes of pink between the glare of the lanterns.

Then a woman stepped out of the light and Catra choked on her bacon. The dress was pink, but closer in color to Catra’s maroon coat than she’d originally thought. The dress plunged almost straight down, which wasn’t a cut Catra had ever seen before. It was sleeveless, and Catra thanked the Powers because this lady was _buff_. She under the dress was tall and her soft halo of golden hair was pulled back into a smooth bun, pierced by a fine pin that looked an awful lot like a dagger. She looked _beautiful_ , and she looked _terrified_. Also, _is that a tiara?_

Catra was good enough at reading people that she thought most of the others didn’t notice. Sure enough, a few whistles and catcalls echoed through the silent inn. Catra’s hand tightened on her pistol, rage flowing through her. But the whistles bounced off whatever armor the pretty lady had up, and she slowly began to descend the stairs. As soon as her foot (in a soft blue slipper) hit the first carpeted stair the piano in the corner kicked off. Fear crosses her face in a flash, but she’s committed and starts singing:

_Fell to my knees with a knife in my back,_

_Never thought you'd be the kind to do something like that,_

_But you did_

_Cold hearted_

_You talked so sweet, and your smell it made me weak,_

_And I fell so fast that I never thought to ask_

_If you were_

_Cold hearted_

She stood midway down the stairs for the first few bars, then spurred herself into motion and slowly started to descend. A few cheers and calls were quickly sushed, and Catra found her hand slipping from her pistol. The singer swept her eyes around the room, and Catra could see the effect it had on the men (and a few of the women).

Nobody would look at Catra and see a woman - even if she wasn’t malnourished after a week in the desert - she’d taken great pains to make sure of that. So nobody would mind Catra drooling over the pretty lady alongside all the men. And drool she did, bacon forgotten on the plate behind her.

The singer strode onto the main floor and started weaving through the tables. She flashed a nervous smile here and there, and drug a hand across the chair backs as she passed. It would’ve seemed natural, but Catra noticed she did it exactly the same way on every single chair in arm’s reach.

Following directions. _Maybe not for the first time, but definitely not something you do often._ Catra melted back against the bar as she started singing again. _Who cares about how awkward you look when you can_ sing _!_

_Pretty little words covered your dark and crooked heart_

_With a forked tongue I fell in love,_

_Then I fell apart_

_You are so_

_Cold hearted_

_Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth_

_I want someone to hurt you, make you die the way I do_

_I don't think that I could be so_

_Cold hearted_

It was a sad song, Catra thought. An odd choice, usually the singers played something raucous to get the drunks on their feet and to keep them thirsty. Didn’t make it any less beautiful. The song ended, the pianist flowing smoothly into a livelier version of the same song after the applause died down. Catra clapped enthusiastically.

Catra decided the singer looked mortified at the applause and cheers, but she smoothly ascended the stairs. Trailed by wordless begging from the assembled men, she disappeared back into, no, behind the chandelier. As soon as she was gone, the room picks back up.

“Isn’t she the greatest?” bellowed some drunk, right into Catra’s damn ear. That shook the enchantment off, and Catra slid behind her walls, not noticing that a few of them were cracked.

“Yeah, sure,” non committal and please, please don’t let it be seen as an invitation.

“I’m gonna marry her!” the drunk continued. Ugh. Catra hadn’t even looked in his direction.

“C’mon, Billy,” the bartender appeared in front of them. “Adora’s married, you know that!”

“Yeah, to some lowlife union soldier is what I heard! Probably dead on a battlefield in Virginia. If he a’int, she’ll be lucky if he comes back with both his legs and arms!” Catra translated from his drunken speech.

 _Adora, cute name_. Also the union comment was concerning. Had she taken a wrong turn and wandered into the confederacy? She should’ve been a long way from anywhere that cared about the War.

“What state are we in?” asked Catra, drowning the nervous knot in her throat with the whiskey. “Also, another please.”

The smiling bartender poured a few fingers into a bigger glass and pushed it towards Catra. “Not a state yet, love! We’re just a territory. We’d be a state if the stupid war didn’t keep sweeping through and killing all the men!”

“War reaches out this far?” Catra pushed, hoping the money that those extra fingers cost earned her some looser lips. The whiskey settled into her full belly, and the burn down her throat felt _so good_.

“Didn’t used to...not until the General showed up,” she said casually, Catra thought maybe too casually.

“General?” Catra’s hair stood on end. Generals meant troops, troops meant battles, battles meant people killing and dying, possibly Catra dying.

“Him and his men showed up a few months back,” said the bartender, leaning closer. More quietly: “They don’t look the part. A few of them are over there, sitting in the corner by the piano.”

“Thanks,” Catra murmured, pushing a dollar across the bar. Far more than the drink was worth, but information was priceless.

The smile had fallen from the girl’s face, but it reappeared at the flash of the dollar. Catra scooped up the whiskey and turned to survey the bar, deliberately casual. She’d almost gotten in a gunfight in the last town, just because she’d dropped her knife. That whole town was jumping at shadows…

The soldiers in the corner definitely didn’t look the part. None wore any insignias or badges, and they were dressed in dull browns like most of the other people in the bar. She watched them on and off for a while as they drank and laughed and threw comments at the pianist. They certainly had the swagger that comes with knowing hundreds of your armed buddies weren’t too far away. Thousands? Probably.

Catra had seen some towns occupied by the military, and they’d looked nothing like this. Somewhere in Colorado there’d been a pair of towns that each boasted a regiment of soldiers, from opposite sides of course. Both colonels had accused her of being a spy for the other, all because of a little poker game.

Both of those towns had been crawling with assholes, and there wasn’t a general in sight.

Catra was afforded an excellent view as the blonde singer Adora made her reappearance, this time dressed in a fetching pair of pants. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail now. A soft white work shirt was getting pulled every which way by her suspenders, and Catra didn’t mind. She wasn’t the only one to notice. The soldiers in the corner perked up as she passed by them, and they watched while she exchanged a few words with the pianist.

Catra imagined her conversation, _You forgot the grace swell crescendo before bar three hundred and eighty five_ , Adora said. _No, you just moved too quickly through the fifth movement_ , ribbed the pianist. _Agree to disagree,_ Adora said with a smile, and turned to walk away.

One of the soldiers reached out, touching her on the arm. Adora turned and Catra saw the flash of coins as he pressed first one, then two into her hand. The second must have been accompanied by a rude comment because the tall blonde hauled back and _slapped_ him across the face. Catra’s hand dropped to her gun again.

“Stupid _bitch,_ ” the soldier spat on the ground, and Catra was delighted to see a little blood in it.

The room fell silent, and Catra wasn’t the only one with their hand on a gun.

One of the soldiers - the least drunk, maybe an officer - noticed too and barked a short command. The offender, who had risen from his chair and looked like he was about to strike Adora - big mistake, since Catra had a clear shot - slowly sank back down into his chair, scooting it back in.

The scraping noise cut the tension, and a few grumbles later the room was back to its lively state. Catra’s hand relaxed off her pistol. Maybe not all of the townspeople were as enthusiastic as drunky about the Confederacy being in town. Also, was she really about to shoot that guy? For what, making a comment to a singer?

Adora crossed the room, passing strained smiles to a few of the patrons at the other tables. She slotted behind the bar and Catra could see the tension drain from her shoulders immediately.

“You’re new!” Sky blue eyes turned on hers and thought left her brain.

Catra was awash in a sea of cerulean, drifting away, away, from conscious thought and into daydream. Blue eyes flashing from below her, hands in her hair, her name sung out like the chorus of a song.

She shook herself free of the blonde’s spell, managing to mutter, “Yeah, jus’ passing through.”

“Where were you before?” the blonde pressed, and Catra shoved down the joy in her chest by taking a huge gulp of her whiskey.

“Some town, I forget the name. Week or two west.” Why, why couldn’t she say something clever? _Nowhere that mattered now that you’re here_ , supplied her brain, terrible and too late.

“Oh, Thaymor!” she smiled, and Catra nearly fell from the sheer force of it. “They’re good folk. Did you stay at the Tower?”

Catra grasped at reality, if the present wouldn’t behave then the past would be her rock. “No, honestly they seemed pretty on edge. One of them almost shot me when I dropped my knife.” Powers, she was pretty. _Is she batting her eyelashes at me on purpose?_

“Adora!” yelled the other girl from the opposite end of the bar, “Will you serve _all_ the customers?”

“Right! Sorry, Glimmer,” Adora jumped to, and immediately turned her attention away from Catra. A chill washed over her when the blue eyes left.

She grabbed the whiskey - _when did it get refilled?_ \- and slunk off to an empty table. The soldiers had left while she was talking with Adora. She slumped gratefully into the chair, waves of exhaustion crashing over her. Talking to pretty girls after a week in the desert was _too much_. Even married pretty girls.

She pushed back in the chair, stretching her dusty boots out and onto the table and pulling her hat down over her face. By the time they got around to that bath, she’d be a hundred years old.

She was startled out of her sleep by someone shoving her feet off the table, and her out of her chair. Spluttering and sprawling on the floor, she grabbed for her gun until she realized that it was just the bartender from before laughing from above her.

“Bath’s ready, stranger,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Room at the top of the right stairs is yours when you’re done. You got any laundry? You got a name?”

“John,” she lied, picking herself up and noting the other chuckles around the room. She probably wasn’t the first sleeping patron to be roused this way. “Yeah, I’ll leave my clothes out.” She had a spare shirt, but she’d left it in Melog’s saddlebags and definitely didn’t want to go back outside tonight.

As if reading her mind, the bartender added, “I left a pair of pants and a shirt in there you can borrow. Adora won’t miss them”

Catra hated that the thought of wearing the other girl’s clothes sent a thrill of...something through her. The bartender just pointed to a door past the piano, one of the three escape routes Catra had unconsciously identified when she first entered the room. The other was behind the bar and the third was through the big windows that probably picked up a lovely amount of the morning sunlight. Third escape was always a window.

The bath wasn’t particularly warm, but Catra didn’t care. She scrubbed all of the dirt from herself, enjoying how brown the water turned. The continued wearing down the heavily used block of soap, and didn’t even mind the light lavender scent it carried. She paused, considering the bandages she used to bind her breasts tight. It wasn’t like she had much up there to begin with, growing up on the streets didn’t lead to a healthy adult body. But she still did it, convinced that even the slightest curve out of place could unconsciously tip someone off.

She’d been mistaken, correctly, for a woman a lot when she first started out in her line of work, and it always caused problems. A lot of it was in the walk. And a lot of idiots believed her when she said _a lot of it is in the walk_.

The bandages did stink, though. She decided to wash the bandages herself, and dry them in her room overnight. The tub, bubbling with soap, was as good a place as any, and after a good amount of work with the soap they smelled less awful.

She bunched them up with the rest of her clothes and slipped on her jacket. There was no way she was letting them clean that, it would just have to smell a little. The fine thick cloth, dyed such a deep maroon as to almost be black, was by far the nicest thing she owned. Especially in this stupid desert, where she sometimes woke up with ice crystals on her eyelashes even though it was fucking _summer_.

She clutched the bundle to her chest and slipped back into the common room. It was practically deserted, it must have been past midnight at this point. She needn’t have worried about anyone seeing her, the only other customers were long passed out, one snoring from halfway on top of a table and the other propped against a wall, bottle still in hand. Adora was crouched by the second, checking his wrist for a pulse.

Catra snorted, audibly, and Adora’s head whipped around. Her ponytail followed a beat later, gently swishing the sleeping drunk’s face. He pawed at his nose, then resumed sleeping.

“Is that my shirt?” Catra froze at the emotion behind Adora’s words.

“Uh…” she stammered, trying to assemble the order of tonight’s events and remember names. “Glimmer left it out, said I could wear it.”

Adora rolled her eyes, “Powers, I swear. If another stranger ruins another one of my shirts, I’ll…”

Catra grinned, finding her footing, “You’ll what, Princess?”

That worked, blue eyes widened in surprise. “What did you call me?” She asked in a very, very small voice.

That...wasn’t how she expected her to react. Catra was back at sea, drowning again. “Princess...cause....the tiara?”

“Oh,” she said, ducking her head as she turned back to the drunk. Catra could’ve sworn she saw her cheeks redden, but she was probably just drunk.

Catra stood a moment longer, then spun on her heel and stomped up the stairs, pushing open the door to her room. Bed, lit lantern on a side table, window. It had everything she wanted. She stretched the bandages across the window, bending a few nails protruding from the frame into hooks.

She dumped the rest of her clothes outside the door, then collapsed onto the bed, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Consciousness found catra as a cool breeze. _Thank the Powers for beds. Thank them for open windows. Thank them for clean clothes. Thank them for warm beds of hay for Melog._ Catra listed off all the things she was grateful for. _Thanks for working revolvers. Thanks for Melog. Thanks for making girls pretty. Thanks for putting them into my life_. She knew she was done when she got to girls.

She didn’t used to make the Gratitudes back when she lived in the house under the willows. She’d started after she left, one freezing night in the mountains when a freak blizzard rolled in and she and Melog had taken shelter in a cave. She definitely should’ve died that night, but the Powers had protected her, so she’d started saying the gratitudes. She’d made worse trades. The Gratitudes were weirdly comforting, and helped keep her spirits up when the going got tough.

The common room was deserted, though she could smell something cooking through the door behind the bar. The sun, she was right, was streaming brilliance through the windows. Shafts of it pierced the floating dust, and the swirls hypnotized catra for a moment. _Thanks for dust, too, I guess_. She stepped out through the swinging doors onto the patio and surveyed the street.

The inn and its crescent moon sign were halfway down a street lined with buildings, all cut from the same dark wood. A few people moved from building to building, carrying baskets and chatting merrily. Children chased each other around them, screaming and fighting over some toy. The air was warm, the cool breeze that woke Catra already nearly gone. An ancient lady sat on the patio across from her, rocking slowly back and forth in a chair. Her white hair was a fluffy mane, kind of like Catra’s would be if she didn’t take her knife to it every few weeks. Catra tipped her hat politely, and was acknowledged with a small wave.

Breakfast was more bacon, fresh off the griddle and sizzling, with some potatoes and green vegetables that tasted like they’d been fried in the bacon grease. The meal left a pleasant burn in Catra’s mouth when she sat back from her plate.

She spent the rest of the day prowling around the town. She never started conversations at this stage, just put herself nearby people who were already talking to see what she could learn. She visited Melog in the stables, admiring the snow white horse in the stall next to him. Melog, sensing her eyes on another horse, snapped at her as she fed him grains, so she made sure to spend lots of time brushing and patting him down.

“Rest up, buddy,” she whispered in his ear before she left. “You’ve earned this.”

Her reconnaissance didn’t yield much. General’s name was Hordak (weird name). Came here a few months back, like the bartender said, with about a hundred troops in tow. Get them in their cups and they’d say that it was some secret mission from the President of Confederacy himself. The regiment called themselves The Horde and made no secret that they were specially trained for dangerous missions. They met up with someone called the Doctor, and the way people talked about them, Catra didn’t think it was the kind of doctor that fixed broken bones.

As for her mark, nothing. Nothing on any of the aliases on the wanted poster folded up in her pocket. She wanted to scream when she trudged back to the inn for dinner. Another town, more money down the drain. She found a half empty bottle of water on a table and drank the whole thing, stupid desert with its stupid dust scratching her throat. Never should’ve come here.

Slumped in a chair, the misery didn’t prevent her from noticing dinner plunked down before her. Beef this time, breaded and fried and golden all over. In the breading, crushed up peanuts, with some more roasted and to the side. Some beans in a sugary sauce, thick and viscous. Catra combined all three on her spoon, slicing the steak with her hunting knife. She barely restrained herself from shoving the knife point first into the card table, this wasn’t that kind of place.

Catra looked up when the piano kicked off, playing the same intro as last night. Adora stood stock still at the top of the stairs, tiara glittering in the light of the chandelier. Catra applauded heartily, cheers echoing through the empty common room. She was the only person there, apart from the bartender Glimmer and the pianist. Catra cheered louder, flipping her chair back as she stood to whoop and holler.

Adora laughed, and every peal struck Catra’s heart like a bell. _What the hell is your deal, Catra? Pull yourself together._

“Do you want me to sing just for you?”

 _Yes_ , said every fiber of Catra’s being. “Only...if you want,” mumbled her mouth, a betrayal.

“It’s okay Adora, _I’ll_ sing!” the pianist shouted, launching into an entirely different song that seemed to be about beans and horses, and how you shouldn’t mix the two. Catra hid her grimace behind a drink from her whiskey.

Adora slunk back into her room, and Catra was crestfallen. Why didn’t she wanna wear the pretty dress? She reappeared at Catra’s table right about the time when Catra was lazily chasing the last beans around the plate, chuckling at the strange music echoing from the pianist in the corner.

“Where is everyone, anyways?” Adora asked, splashing more whiskey into Catra’s cup. Catra jumped, the bigger girl sure moved quietly. She had changed back into her shirt and pants, suspenders too.

Catra grunted indifference, sipping her whiskey.

“So, where you headed, wanderer?” asked Adora, flopping down casually in the seat next to Catra’s.

Panic gripped Catra. “Wherever the wind blows,” she said, gesturing gently.

“But, the wind blows east mostly and you said you came from Thaymor and that’s West?” she asked, all sweet confusion. _Powers save me, she’s a little dumb too_.

“It means he goes where he wants, dummy!” called Glimmer the bartender.

“Looking for someone, actually,” Catra said low, hoping to draw the other girl closer. It worked, and panic grabbed her again. She smelled like the lavender soap in the bath, she probably got to use it often. Her ponytail swished gently behind her and Catra just wanted to pull it down and run her fingers through the golden blonde locks. _Get a grip, Catra_.

“It’s someone from my past,” Catra lied. “Heard she might be around here. Name’s-” she’s interrupted when Adora’s face goes white. Stupid soliders must be back, _please, Powers, let them try something_.

Hand slipping to her belt, Catra turned and watched five thousand dollars walk in the door. Well, five thousand alive or twenty five hundred dead, when she brought the head back to Wyoming. Long dark hair floating gently in the breeze, Weaver had a long red overcoat on, with tall black boots and black shirt and pants. It was a good ensemble, and she almost would’ve looked scary if Catra hadn’t been consumed with visions of the biggest bounty of her life.

 _This is too easy,_ Catra thought as a grin spread across her face. _What’s the catch?_

The catch followed Weaver a beat later, a hulking man probably 7 or 8 feet tall, with broad shoulders and brass buttons down a military uniform. His hat was emblazoned with some symbol Catra didn’t recognize. It had plenty of guns and knives so it was probably some military thing. Two guards, looking more nervous than Catra, filed in right after him, taking up positions beside the door. The clumping of boots on the porch announced more guards outside.

Weaver glided right past Catra, heading straight for Adora, who did not look happy to see her. “Adora, my darling, it’s been so long since you came to see me,” she drawled.

“Dr...Weaver,” Adora stammered. “I’ve been...really busy with the inn. Meant to stop by.”

“Of course, how could I tear you away from such a _lively_ establishment?” five thousand dollars gestured at Glimmer and the pianist, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Surely these two can handle all of the _customers_. I would hate for you to neglect your duty.”

“No, it’s just,” Adora continued to stammer as Weaver drew closer. “I’m making progress I promise, it’s better when I have work to do.”

Catra nearly snarled when Weaver reached out a hand to trace Adora’s jaw. Hand already below the table, she pulled it towards her gun. $2,500 dead was starting to sound better and better. Easier than dealing with escape attempts from here to Wyoming. She’d shoot her now, grab Melog from the stable, and be out of town before anyone knew it.

Just as her hand found the grip of her pistol, a bigger one descended on her shoulder. “Now,” drawled a deep, dangerous voice. “We haven’t been introduced.”

Weaver didn’t take her eyes off Adora, though the other girl turned her head and pulled away from the Doctor’s touch.

“Uhh...General Hordak, this is John, he’s staying with us while she looks for a lost family member,” Adora supplied, helpfully adding details to Catra’s incomplete lie.

The giant hand gripped like a vice and propelled Catra up out of her chair. This time she really did snarl, but the sight of the broad shouldered man framed by the two guards with their pistols already drawn stilled her hand.

“Well then, as Sheriff I welcome you to the humble town of Brightmoon,” he said, words sloping from his mouth. He pulled aside a flap on his jacket, revealing a shiny silver badge beneath it, then offered his hand to shake.

 _Son of a bitch_ , Catra thought. _Of course the mark is hanging around with the damn sheriff._ She shook, grudgingly, his soft glove crushing her bare hand in another vicelike grip. Rather than let despair consume her, she shifted to gathering information like she had all day.

“We don’t want no trouble, you hear?” the sheriff general commanded. “We get a fair few outsiders in these parts, and none of ‘em cause any trouble. Not since the good people of this town elected me Sheriff.” The vice on her shoulder constricted again, relaxing only when Catra took her hand off her gun. His smile was as crooked as his words and Catra’s skin crawled at the sight.

He shoved her off with a rough laugh and followed her as she stumbled to the bar. He called out to the bartender: “Glimmer, have I ever told you that Half Moon is my favorite establishment?”

“Yes, General,” Glimmer said, not as bright as before. “Can I get you and your friends anything?”

“A round of whiskeys, I imagine!” Hordak gestured to the room, “Though my men are on duty so they won’t have any. And the good Doctor doesn’t drink.”

“Of course, General,” as she poured two whiskeys. The General grabbed his and proffered the other to Catra, who would’ve much rather spit in his face. She threw it back grudgingly, and turned to watch Weaver leaning over Adora and speaking quietly.

“It seems you’ve taken a liking to our Archaeologist, stranger,” Hordak said, for once not loud enough to carry across the whole town. “It’s a shame she’s gone and married. And to a union soldier, no less. I’ve heard he’s an enlisted man, shame that he’ll rot in prison for his part in this _tragedy_ of a war.” He didn’t sound like he really thought it was a tragedy.

“Sure, shame,” muttered Catra, not bothering to deny her infatuation with Adora and wishing she could pull out her gun and shoot this asshole in the face.

Adora looked very uncomfortable, and only relaxed when Weaver took a step back. Red tinted eyes met Catra’s for the briefest of moments, then the doctor swept out of the room, leaving silence in her wake. Wide blue eyes met hers next, and a fierce need for revenge gripped her.

“Well, seems that the good doctor is done with her conversation,” Hordak rapped a few times on the counter. “I’ll just collect my payment and be on my way.”

With a grimace, Glimmer slid a small purse across the bar. Hordak made a show of counting and catra saw at least a dozen dollars, a small fortune for a place that had only one paying customer tonight.

The sloping smile found its way into her vision again as he drawled, “So pleased to meet’cha, Catra. I hope our paths cross again.”

\-----

Catra followed them out of town, Melog grumbling as she eased him quietly from the stables. The General’s little entourage didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Her mark stayed in the middle of the group, for the most part, while Hordak and the soldiers mingled around her. She didn’t exactly have a plan, apart from capture weaver, return to Wyoming. _Plans always go wrong anyways._

She’s too far behind them to catch any words, keeping her distance in case Melog’s noises give her away. She tied him to a tree and crossed the last stretch on foot, scrambling up a low hill to survey the dig site.

It was a wide pit, with a rough wooden palisade built around its perimeter. The locals had said it used to be a pit mine, abandoned when the war started. Some soldiers carrying lanterns patrolled the palisade. The light would help Catra avoid the guards more than it would help them spot her. A few rough buildings stood at the edge of the pit, with a makeshift stable next to them. A dozen or two pitched tents were scattered on the flattest parts of the dig.

Catra was content to survey the mine, until the crack of a gunshot shattered the still night air and a bullet slammed into the rocks below her. She was down the back side of the hill in a flash, chased by shouts from the camp.

She whipped her rifle out of Melog’s saddle, whispering into his ear, “Go back to your stable, my beautiful boy.” She untied him and slapped his rear. Melog knew the drill and happily hightailed it back to town.

Catra didn’t watch him leave, pulling her hat down as she took off running around the edge of the camp. When better to sneak in than while everyone was out looking for a spy?

**Author's Note:**

> I know not much happened, but the next chapter should have a lot of action I promise!!
> 
> The song and title are from "Cold Hearted" by the Zac Brown Band.


End file.
